


Checking the List

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-02
Updated: 2005-07-02
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who's naughty and nice... Spike meets mini! Wes. Set in the Very Best Time of the Year AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checking the List

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

SPOILERS: set for S3 Angel – set in The Very Best Time of The Year AU ‘verse (after 3.05 ‘Fredless’ and S6 Buffy 6.05.‘Life Serial’)  
AUTHOR’S NOTES: The quotes are from ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’

 

**Checking the List**

 

_He’s making a list_  
Checking it twice   
He’s gonna find out who’s naughty and nice 

Ho bleeding ho.

He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d ended up in L.A. on the night before the night before Christmas. Granted, back in the day this would just have been a box of nummy treats; all those juicy little morsels out after dark, so trusting and innocent. Dru always said Christmas was her favourite time of the year. But things were different now. And not just because of the chip. 

It was her. Well, her and the whole ‘the only person I can stand to be around is…a neutered vampire who cheats at kitten poker…’ debacle. He had to get away. She was making it pretty clear that she didn’t want him around. Not at this time of the year. Not with the jolly old Watcher back and doing his kindly old uncle routine. 

And for some reason known only to God and his ministering angels he had ended up in L.A. City of .. great nancy boy vampires and their cheerleader sidekicks! He must be seeing things. Spike moved back into the shadow of a shop doorway and watched the Poof and Cordelia? Yes, that was it, Cordelia, enter the costume shop.

Now this was interesting. He looked up at the sign, expecting to see Land of Leather, or PVC World, but was rather disappointed to read the tame ‘Mason’s Theatrical Costume Hire’. Still, his curiosity was piqued. He moved closer to the door, trying to keep himself hidden from view. Which also meant that he couldn’t see them. Could hear them though.

‘No, Cordy. I’m not doing it. That’s final. I don’t know why I let you drag me in here in the first place.’

‘Spoilsport. You said you would. Come on, Angel, it’s just for one night.’

‘I never said… Cordy, I can’t. Maybe Gunn…?’

There was a snort of derisive laughter from inside the shop. ‘Yeah, right. As if Wesley would fall for that. No, it’s got to be you.’

Oh, he would give one of his eye teeth to see the expression on the Neanderthal’s face right now.

‘Angel. Come on. For Wesley, please? He wished for a happy Christmas. It’d mean so much to him. Please.’

Oh, she was good. Sending him on the guilt trip with a one way ticket. Then he heard muttering; under the breath, bad-tempered mutters, and Cordelia was shrieking and probably throwing her arms around him. 

‘Go on then. But you’re paying for it.’

And suddenly Spike realized that he was headed towards the exit. He didn’t fancy confronting Angel, not in this even more sullen and brooding than usual mood. He slipped out of the shop exit and headed off down the street, without looking back.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Typical. The great ponce couldn’t live in a basement like any normal vampire. Always had to have a mansion, or a castle, or a bloody hotel. And not just any hotel. The place looked like it had class. He could imagine it in its heyday, all art deco and debauchery. And then had a wonderful image of himself, axe in hand as he smashed through a door, screaming ‘Here’s Johnny!’ He smiled at that thought, and ground his cigarette under his foot before entering the building.

Well, hell, the old Private Dick work certainly paid well, if this was anything to go by. The Poof was clearly making ends meet quite nicely. All the marble didn’t come cheap, and with the size of this lobby, he imagined the utilities bill would be as thick as a soul-binding contract. 

But perhaps the most incongruous element in the detective agency/hotel was the perfectly decorated Christmas tree which had pride of place in the lobby. It was tastefully adorned with glittering glass baubles and carefully painted wooden toys. Looked like the Poof was finally getting in touch with his inner Martha Stewart. He looked up and noticed a small action figure, dressed all in black, perched atop the tree. Now that was just weird.

He strolled over to the reception counter and smacked his palm on a small bell. The tiny ping echoed in the cavernous space.

‘Um…hello?’

The voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear it, probably wouldn’t have without the benefit of vampire senses. 

‘Can I…I’m sorry… I mean… I think they help… um, are you helpless… do you need help?’

On the other side of the counter, in the doorway of what appeared to be another inner office, stood a small dark haired boy of maybe six years of age. He was thin; so thin that Spike could see his shoulder bones clearly defined through the soft fabric of his shirt. His short dark hair stood up in spikes at the back of his head, and a pair of Harry Potter spectacles failed to hide huge blue eyes. He spoke with an accent Spike remembered from his own youth at Harrow.

‘Hey, there, kid.’ He was fascinated. The kid seemed to be at home in the office, but what exactly was a small and very obviously English child doing in Angel’s hotel? 

‘Wes, no one ever tell you not to speak to strangers?’

A deeper voice this time, and Spike turned to see a tall broad-shouldered black man come out of a door, carrying milk and cookies. He folded his arms across his chest and waited, while the kid, now named as ‘Wes’, dropped his head down and mumbled an apology. His face suddenly very red. 

‘Hey. No need to get snippy with the bit. Not his fault.’

Spike wasn’t really sure why he was sticking up for the kid. Wasn’t like he knew him, or anything. Still, it was his fault the boy had spoken, and he didn’t want him in trouble over it.

‘Can I help you?’ 

His tone of voice belied the words; Spike honestly believed that the desire to help him was the furthest thing from this man’s mind. 

‘Ah. Not sure about the help thing. I’m here to see Angel. I’m an... ’ here he paused and managed to control the wicked grin that so wanted to spread across his face ‘… old friend of his.’

The man looked at him as if he’d just admitted that he was Satan’s stepson, and deliberately reached under the counter to produce a large stake.

‘Now why does that thought not set my mind at ease?’ He toyed with the stake, never lifting his eyes off Spike. ‘Gotta say, not the best way to introduce yourself. Now how old a friend we talking? Hundred years?’

Spike stepped back from the counter, raising his palms in a gesture of submission. ‘Put that thing away. Can’t hurt you. Even if I wanted to. Can’t hurt any human.’ 

He demonstrated, quickly; before he could bottle out. Lunged at the tall human, swinging his fist at the taller man’s jaw. White hot pain enveloped him before it connected. Pain that could not be learned coursed along his nerve endings, arcing through his body like electricity, carving new words for torture into his brain.

‘Oh bloody sodding buggering hell!’ He clamped one hand over his eye, which seemed to be threatening to jump out of its socket, while the veins in his forehead pulsed in a salsa rhythm of agony.

‘Hey, man! Watch the language!’

Bugger. The kid. Spike opened one eye cautiously, and stole a glance at Wes. Who had moved to stand closer to the tall man, and was eyeing Spike with something akin to unabashed admiration.

‘Who the hell are you?’ The man was now very angry, and Spike noticed he had placed his arm around the boy’s shoulder in a protective gesture.

‘I know who he is.’ The little voice came again, wavering slightly, soft and tentative.

‘You know this assho… I mean… creep, Wes?’

The child nodded, his gaze fixed on Spike. ‘He’s William the Bloody.’

‘Wes! Language!’ the other chided gently, but Wes shook his head.

‘No, Gunn. That’s what he was called, like Angel was the Scourge of Europe. And he’s known as Spike. For his habit of torturing his victims with railway spikes.’

Spike’s mouth had fallen open. It was like meeting Rupert Giles’ lovechild. When he had finished, the child reached up and adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose.

‘You…ah… got the advantage on me, kid.’ 

‘I’m Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.’

Seriously toffee-nosed moniker, but it wasn’t ringing any bells for him. Wesley raised his eyebrows expectantly.

‘I think you’ve met my father.’

Spike was sure he would have remembered that name. ‘If you could just refresh my memory…?’

Again with the little glasses trick. This time they came off, and he looked directly into the almost unnaturally blue eyes.

‘Vienna, 1963. An orphanage. You killed two of his team before escaping.’

Now it was coming back to him. What a fun time that had been, all those sweet little cherubs full of bratwurst and begging. And then that team from the Watcher’s council had arrived and spoiled his fun. He’d had to leave the city after that, and he’d so been looking forward to the Vienna Philharmonic Ball. Always nice to round off a slaughter with a touch of culture, he thought wistfully, before realizing that Wesley was watching him intently.

‘Oh, yeah, sorry about your Dad’s team and all.’ Trying to sound sincere.

‘I read about it in the watcher’s journals. It was his greatest failure.’ There appeared to be no malice in the child’s voice. On the contrary, Spike could have sworn he heard the tiniest hint of a chuckle beneath the words. He was beginning to like this kid.

‘So. Spike,’ the man now identified as Gunn continued. ‘Angel knows you’re visiting then?”

Oh Hell. ‘Not so much. Thought I’d surprise him, you know, with Christmas just around the corner…’

‘Gunn, I’m sure Angel wouldn’t like us to throw his friend out on to the street. Not an old friend like Spike.’ 

Wesley’s voice was innocence personified, but Spike wondered exactly how much of his relationship with the souled idiot the watcher’s journals had catalogued. He caught the child’s eye, and the kid slowly and deliberately winked at him.

‘Besides, there are some details of the Vienna massacre that weren’t completely clear from my Father’s account. I’d really like to clear them up. Purely for research purposes, you understand.’ 

Spike grinned at Wesley, returning the wink.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Oh, he loved this kid. He had the wickedest sense of humour, as evidenced by the angel he had placed at the top of the tree. All dressed in black leather, complete with crossbow and scowl.

‘I was going to ask Cordy to put a proper one up, but I just couldn’t imagine Angel in white, with fluffy wings and sparkly halo.’ He looked up at Spike, his face completely serious. ‘Could you, Spike?’

Spike had to bite his lip to stop himself from cracking up. Now here was one truly worthy of the title ‘devil with the face of an angel.’ From the time they’d spent together he knew a bit about the mini watcher, who’d made a wish and been whisked forward in time and place.

He remembered now Buffy and the others mentioning an uptight Pod!Giles who had spent his time in Sunnydale screaming like a girlie and tripping over his own feet. This couldn’t be the same Wyndam-Pryce. Not this sweet little kid with the mischievous glint in his eye when Spike suggested ways to torture Angel. 

And from the little he remembered of the council team that had intercepted the party in Vienna, Wesley’s dad had been a bit of an arrogant sod. Typical Council type, full of the old van Helsing creature of the night crap. Bloody intolerant bastard.

Spike didn’t want to think too much about what it would be like to grow up in the shadow of such inflexible tutelage. What it was clearly like for Wesley. Found himself wishing that he’d managed to open a vein in Wyndam-Pryce Senior’s neck back in sixty-three. Though that probably would have upset the kid even more than having him around. Hell, what did he know, anyway? It wasn’t as if he had much experience with the whole fathers and sons’ thing. That was more Angelus’ area of expertise.

He noticed that Gunn, despite his earlier gentle reprimand, was actually very fond of Wes, and incredibly protective of him. At least the kid was getting what he’d apparently wished for – a happy Christmas. It just seemed a bit depressing that the happiness he desired was so far away from his childhood years.

Spike lounged against the counter, while Wes sat on top of it, munching an oatmeal raisin cookie, and apparently conducting a vital piece of research into vampire’s eating habits. Namely, what sort of biscuit did Spike prefer to dunk in his blood? He was busy reciting a litany of peculiarly British biscuits – Rich Tea, Hob Nobs, Fig Rolls, Custard Creams, Digestives, Chocolate Fingers, and Ginger Nuts – then nodding sagely when Spike commented on their compatibility with AB neg.

There was a noise at the entrance to the lobby, and Cordelia came through the door in a rush, her face suspiciously bright.

‘Wesley? Gunn? Just look who’s come to visit!’

She reached back again through the door and bodily hauled a reluctant figure into the hotel.

Oh.

This was so much better than he’d anticipated. The suit was of finest burgundy velvet, and the trimmings at the collar cuffs and hem did seem to be real ermine. Trust the poof to get that detail right.

He wore padding around his middle, although from the way the leather duster had pulled on him earlier, Spike wasn’t entirely sure that it was necessary. His usually brill-creamed bonce was now covered with snow-white flowing locks, set off by a matching beard, which reached all the way down to his ample stomach. Perched on the wig was a matching hat, which flopped artfully to the side as if by some affected pre-arrangement.

Wesley dropped the cookie he had been chewing on and Spike felt a finger poke gently into his side. He looked down at the mini watcher.

‘It’s Angel, you know.’ Wesley mouthed silently to him, his face incredibly serious.

Spike nodded with the same gravity. ‘I know,’ he whispered back. ‘The Dork Avenger.’ He winked slowly, and put his forefinger to his lip, as Wes began to giggle.

Spike ran up the lobby with his arms outstretched, squealing at the top of his voice.

‘ _You better watch out, you better not cry_  
you better not pout, I’m telling you why  
Santa Claus is coming to town.’

‘Oh, God. Spike.’ Angel’s toes were positively curling with embarrassment.

‘Oh, Santa, I’ve been such a good boy this year!’

Thud.

‘Ow.’ 

Wesley had fallen off the counter.


End file.
